


Next of Kin

by noclouds



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Hamilton Cries and Laurens is Dead, In 18th Century America We Write Letters, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-12 16:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11741280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noclouds/pseuds/noclouds
Summary: It had been nine years since the death of John Laurens. And Hamilton finds a letter.





	Next of Kin

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is a labor of my love. I have spent over a year writing it specifically for today and visited so many historic sites to get it just right. As I publish this, I am actually a block away from where the Boston Massacre broke out. 
> 
> The vague smut is in the beginning if you want to skip it!
> 
> Please enjoy, tissues are at the bottom! <3

_"I pray you pass this letter on if I fall to Lee's bullet."_

_He took the envelope with nimble fingers, thumbs pressing down on the sharp corners, flattening them. His throat felt tight as air struggled to pass through; he reminded himself to breathe. He remained on his cot, too paralyzed in this moment to move as his mind echoed with thoughts of everything that could go wrong. Hamilton looked up from the envelope, watching his friend move around their shared tent and putting together the few items John had collected during the war and the ones they had been given. He placed them neatly on his own cot and turned back to his friend. Shoulders sagging under the weight of the many ‘what ifs’ they could face tomorrow._

_"Are you scared?" Hamilton asked, finding his voice, rare for it to be lost. Laurens had that effect on him, his heart too heavy with their past memories of camaraderie and bravery._

_Laurens stifled a smile, subconsciously picking at the beds of his fingernails. "I am not. If Lee is as good of a shot as his compliments, I have no fear that I will survive to see the next day." Half true,his tone wavered. Hamilton knew a lot about his friend, his mannerisms and personality that faltered in times of hardship. Laurens was holding back, forcing a bright face. It didn’t matter that both of them were eager to make the ruined general pay for his words but perhaps the duel would not escalate to shooting; unlikely, Burr and Lee were just as hard headed as Laurens and himself._

_Hamilton liked to believe he knew his friend best. They lived with each other, fought beside each other, and during the dark of night, had lain with one another as well. It was more than friends helping each other through the cold. Neither spoke of that._

_Hamilton took a deep breath, relaxed and offered his friend a timid smile. As John's second, he needed to remain within himself- and if all should fail- he would break. There was never anyone who he was closer with- asides his wife._

_"I know you will, my friend."_

_Laurens' sad smile turned into a smirk as he moved towards Alexander. He laid the envelope down on the sheets, hesitantly as John straddled his hips. Hamilton looked up, eyes dark- like grey clouds before the storm, hungry yet shielding emotion._

_The storm would not break. He would not give in to his doubts. And he would not yet cry when there was nothing yet to cry about. Fear does not deserve his tears._

_"Laurens, do not throw away your shot. I can’t bare the thought of losing you." Hamilton told him, a hand cupping his cheek and his own sliding up John's thigh._

_"Then if I am to perish tomorrow, let’s just have this last night together."_

_Laurens' lips pressed gently against his, moving masterfully. They cherished this. The slow, careful movements and tender touches opposed many of their previous times whereas they did not have time or any one could overhear them and be caught. Tonight, however, time did the lovers a favor as she gave them privacy and the will to take as long as they needed to wrap their hearts in precaution for tomorrow's events._

_Hamilton's fingers made move to undo both of their waistcoats, eyes drinking in each other's skin as if seeing it for the first time and to memorize it. The cool air felt brisk against their bare chests but their heated movements of flesh kept them warm. Laurens draped himself over Hamilton, leg in between his knees, as they rocked together. They drank each other's moans, whispered praise against skin. Time awakened as each drew to their climax and there were no more actions that could supplement words._

_They laid together on Hamilton's cot, the sheer blanket covering their bodies. Laurens pressed into his side, letting out a deep sigh as Hamilton ran his fingers through the messy curls. They said nothing as crickets rang out into the darkness and their candlelight died. Yet they remained together, arms tangled around torsos, holding on for as long as they could, running away from the reality of dawn._

_The world didn't harm them that night. And as the envelope remained next to Hamilton's boots on their tent floor, he felt the slight shift of John leaving the bed, and he drifted off to sleep..._  
  
~~~

He woke up to his hand smeared in ink rendering the letter he had been working on to Congress completely unusable. He would have to redo it from the beginning but that didn't matter. Hamilton blinked eerily into low lighted room. He didn't remember shutting the curtains the night before. Eliza must have shut them before they left; bless his Betsey's kind heart. It was better to wake at his own discretion instead of the bright sun beaming in his eyes.

Especially today of all days, he was not in the mood for anything warm, or bright, or bothersome. He sat up in his desk chair, muscles aching in protest as he straightened up. His eyes began to adjust to the dark room as he began to clean up the papers, pens and spilled inkwell on his desk.

Hamilton wanted the world to pass by without him today. For everyone to go on about their business in the New York bustling streets while he stayed inside and shuffled around his apartment. Alone.

It was only by coincidence that this “anniversary” overlapped with his wife's trip upstate. While he knew Eliza would sit with him, offer comforting words and give him the space he wanted-- her presence was always there. It didn't help that while he was filled with grief, Hamilton could not also handle the guilt of having Eliza around.

It had been nine years since the death of Lt. Colonel John Laurens.

No, Laurens wasn't just a death- was not just one person amidst the thousands of soldiers who had died. He was so much more. To Hamilton, he was his most intimate friend, brother in arms. Nine years and his heart still shattered with grief as he wept. Laurens had died too early, died in a skirmish that could have been avoided, and died without marking his own legacy. Hamilton tried to continue it, pushing for his friend's abolitionist ideals yet in the storm of setting up President Washington's cabinet, polishing his debt plan-- he is ashamed to say he forgot and put his priorities first. Another round of guilt seeped down his spine and Hamilton choked out a sob.

Phillip and Angelica would've had an uncle. The world would be less cold. And Alexander Hamilton would still have the spring in his step as he had in the war.

He hasn’t forgotten. He clings to the memories that try, yearly, to escape his consciousness. Drunken laughter and the softest brush of fingertips. They had been so careful to keep their distance in public, but the magnetic pull was not ignorable. Soldiers knew that it was Hamilton and Laurens, the duo made complete with Lafayette-- but even what he had shared with Lafayette was not the same as what he shared with Laurens. The frenchman and him were brothers, both young orphans, they could find solace in each other’s pasts. But only John Laurens could match and share Hamilton’s passion.

Laurens was more than just a brother. All of the aide-de-camps were like brothers. Laurens, to Hamilton, was his lover.

He pulled himself from his desk chair. His palm was smeared with dried ink and he tried to wipe it off on his waistcoat. Ink didn’t wash out, as Eliza had told him time and time again, but the idea of ruining something for the sake of ruining it seemed oddly nice. It was just a waistcoat. It could be replaced. Funny, how easily some things could be replaced.

In his study, he kept a small bookcase. He brought a few books from his home and kept them close to him throughout the war. Those were tucked safely, only opened when he needed reminders of childhood glee. His finger would trace over each word, as if he was discovering it for the very first time. There were also books that he had recently bought, texts of philosophies and law. Quick reads, he called them, despite their width. And tucked away where he kept them high up on the top self, were his notebooks. Collections of his thoughts and ideas, scribbles and constant ramblings from as early as when he was 14. He kept them safe and tried to obtain a fresh notebook every time something changed in his life. The older ones were filled with poetry. The one he kept beside his bed nowadays contained tired rants and essays. It was more of a coping mechanism for him, writing down his dreams and thoughts when he’d wake up in the middle of the night.

Hamilton reached for one of those notebooks. He had kept one during the war. Today, he told himself, he would flip through. Words had such powerful meaning and if anything could transport him to the past, to his old memories, this notebook would do so. If only temporary and metaphorically.

Some of it’s pages were crumbled by stuffing it quickly back into his belongings. Other pages were completely torn from marches. Hamilton had tried to keep it from falling apart and did his best to protect it. Nine years was a sufficient amount of time passed for another read. He sat back down at his desk, slowly. His glasses laid just behind him, yet he knew these words like the way he still remembered how to load a musket in seconds; he wasn’t that old.

He gently cradled each page, slowly reading over his notes and his past. He would not let this moment break and he slowly eased himself back into his desk chair. The world disappeared. It was him and the war. Many soldiers spoke how the war was something they wanted to leave behind, focus on now building their country. That was Hamilton’s job, but the war to him was more than the bloody battles. It was progression, it was love, and it was dedication. He found himself each time he marched.

By noon, he was up to his entries around the time of Valley Forge. Memories swelled up in his mind and played back through time, and Hamilton could see himself sitting at the desk in his room at their headquarters, could hear Charles Lee race up the stairs and demand the room as his own, could almost feel the warmth of the fire from the living room… Fire wasn’t needed to warm all of them from the chill; the jokes they shared as they worked side by side for the General was enough.

Yet, working was one thing, a simple distraction but alone where he could write brought out a whole other sorrow.

I am seeing the best minds of my generation waste away in pestilence and starvation. Is this all a test or have we met our doom? Have we set up camp or parameters for our tomb?

He could almost hear Laurens whispering behind him-- _“Get some rest… We won’t die here, my dear boy.”_ And they didn’t.

Hamilton wiped his eyes on his sleeve, notebook resting in his lap. As he shifted, the book slid off his knees and landed on the floor. He stared down at it, stunned by the sudden noise but then noticed a cream envelope with curved corners sticking out from the next few pages. His mind knew what it was before his conscience could catch up and tell him to stop, to breathe.

John’s letter.

His fingers flipped open the sealed paper and dipped inside. All those years ago, memories of those two foolish rambunctious soldier boys, unable to take a no for an answer and held one man accountable for the deaths of their men. It seemed almost stupid that Lee had died only a few months after Laurens, even though John had shot first.

At the time of their duel, the letter had no function. They had won, completely unharmed. Yet the words that he knew John had written came from a mindset of maybes. He had written this letter to get out everything he needed to say in case Lee had mortally shot him. And Hamilton didn’t even know he had kept it. He didn’t care if he had written it for Martha; he had read some of their small correspondence before, what mattered was his words.

Inside, there laid two folded pieces of parchment. One the backs of one, clean in cursive read **Frances**. He flipped over the second one, expecting it to be for his wife, and a sob left his lips upon reading his own name. One for his daughter, and one for him. He made the decision there to not read Frances’ letter. She had never known her father. Hamilton tucked it carefully back into its envelope and swore to Laurens he would mail it to her.

He opened his letter, tears already running down his cheeks. It had been so long since he had last seen his friend’s cursive, and Laurens seemed to come alive in the words.

> _Alexander,_
> 
> _I may not know what comes of tomorrow. But I know what is happening right now. You are sleeping soundly on my cot, snoring softly. Your arms are looking for my weight and warmth and I will join you again once I finish my final letter._  
>  _To me, Alexander, I will never apologize to our God or our world for loving you. Love is whole and special, and none other has stolen my heart who deserves it more than you. I do not reject any kiss or touch, but cherish them. Love should be celebrated, not scorned by any who think it different._
> 
> _I cannot match any of your flowery language. I cannot match your wit or silver tongue. But I can pour my heart onto this page, as you do, each time you settle down to write. The thought of leaving you pains me and to know that I can’t have you for myself is a heartbreaking truth. I love you, not as brothers, not as soldiers, but the way how a woman can love a man._
> 
> _If we win tomorrow, this letter will be in vain, yet keep it as a reminder for my devotion to you. Know that it will never falter nor cease. It will never change, my dear boy. I will repeat it into your skin each time we kiss. I love you, Alexander. Your brain and your heart have seduced me, a charmer to a snake, you pulled me out of my clouded uncertainties and showed me out to live again._
> 
> _I hope I can continue to live besides you._
> 
> _If we win, or if we lose, none of what we have shared will have been in vain. I will continue to fight for you and willing to die for you all the same. I will fight for our shared ideals._
> 
> _One day, I pray, that our love shall not be scorned. In another world, a better world, my dear, there will be a better outcome opposed to the suffering and terror we have witnessed today, tomorrow, and the next day. I will fight for that world, as I know you do._
> 
> _Never stop writing._  
>  _Never stop fighting for everything you believe in. You have so many words._  
>  _The world deserves to hear all of them._  
>  _Never forget me._  
>  _You will go so far, my friend. I hope I am there to witness it._
> 
> _Forever yrs,_  
>  _Your most affectionate & dutiful,_  
>  _John Laurens_  
>  _xo_

Hamilton read the letter over; once, twice before realizing his tears have now run dry. He heaves, gently placing the letter onto his desk and doubles over. There is nothing but the sound of his dry sobs, hiccups for air, and the broken man, alone, inside his study.

He doesn’t know when he composes himself, or when his conscious wakes up, but finds himself sitting in their family room, staring at nothing, but his fingers were curled around a small glass of whiskey. _John_ , he thought, _my dear, thank you._ And prayed to a god he doesn’t necessarily believe in; it had forsaken him twice to many. Hamilton’s mind wandered back, back to the war, to their last night before Laurens had left for South Carolina, to the Battle of Monmouth and Valley Forge. He thought back to the first time they met. He raised his glass.

_Show time, show time!_

And Hamilton can hear their drunken beats together, feeling at home in a world he was so new too.

There was a knock on the door. As he stood up, he could almost feel a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. But no one was there and Hamilton strode to the door, hoping whoever it was couldn’t tell that he hadn’t slept in a week.

**Author's Note:**

> *hands you a tissue* Thank you so much for reading. Please let me know what you think- comments and kudos are both awesome! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at pequenoleon!   
> \---
> 
> Rest in Peace, Lt. Colonel John Laurens. (August 27th, 1782)


End file.
